


Touch.

by mishbutts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishbutts/pseuds/mishbutts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel wants to touch Dean. He doesn't need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 1am to get rid of some ideas I had floating around my head. Unbeta'd.
> 
> This is the first thing I've ever posted here, so feedback would be really appreciated!

It wasn't for lack of love that Dean and Castiel didn't touch. 

A childhood lack of closeness, of warmth, of a mother's arms denied the hunter a sense of worth, causing him to recoil whenever the angel's fingers dragged against his own hopefully, to spit about personal space, to storm away to chase the cold in the air and his chest to the bottom of a shot glass. 

Unearthly innocence, having watched humanity like koi in the pond of his father's creation but having never interacted, seeing the acts of intimacy shared between lovers, between family, between friends, with a vague knowledge of the nuances of each, left the seraph curious but wary, aware of the macho taboo of physical closeness between male friends, but burning to reach out, to feel the proof of something more in the way Dean's skin flushed under his own. 

Touch was unnecessary. Redundant. How much could possibly be expressed with the brushing of lips, when damned souls and withered Grace lay in the history between them? 

The Righteous Man and the soldier of God embraced in worried glances. Shouts of agony and soothing words entwined instead of fingers, whispered promises in dark hotel rooms caressed where calloused hands couldn't reach.

It drove Castiel to madness. 

When Dean cried in the dead of night, the weight of humankind's fate hanging over his head like a guillotine, the angel longed to hold him, to murmur hope into soft chestnut hair, to reassure that not every man turned out exactly like their father. Sitting beside the taller man in yet another greasy diner, Castiel ached to press his shoulder into the hunter's, oblivious to Sam's mild discomfort, sharing warmth he barely felt and a short stack he didn't need on a frigid December hunt. 

Dean would snap, hissing with a sob-shattered voice that appearing in his hotel room unannounced was "creepy", and to leave immediately. Dean would sit bolt upright, his father's ideals of what it meant to be a man screaming and echoing deafeningly in his ears, as he sat as far away on the sticky plastic seat as he could. 

But when the man he raised from Perdition smiled at him alone, sending electricity he didn't understand down his spine, barked reprimands with a shotgun in his hands and honest concern in his eyes, or prayed to him, final admissions of how much he was needed, the former God understood.

It wasn't for lack of love that Dean and Castiel didn't touch.


End file.
